My Dear Freudian Complex
by Sirius Blaak
Summary: What did Johanna really feel when Sweeney found her hiding in the chest? Was she really frightened out of her wits? Read at your own risk, may be slightly creepy.


**Please read the author's note. It could prevent future brain-scarring. Thank you.**

_So, I think we've all learned at least one thing in all our years of fanfic-ing. Fangirls are extremely irrational. For instance, most Sweeney fangirls find themselves drooling over him when he's covered in blood and screaming in disgust during the happy Benjamin Barker days. Ah well, such is life, I suppose._

_But the fact remains: most Sweeney viewers of the female persuasion found him extremely attractive. What most forget is that Mr. Johnny Depp is old enough to be their father. Creepy much?_

_It depends on how you look at it. I'm sure most of you are yelling at me, saying, 'No, it's not creepy at all! He can't help it if he's hot!' But consider this: Johanna is a girl in her teens. She doesn't know Sweeney's her father. Following me?_

_Now it's creepy, isn't it? If you're not scared away, read on. I don't really know where this idea came from, but I figured I might as well post it. A lot of my Sweeney fics go against the mainstream anyway, so what the heck. I can't get flamed more than I have in the past..._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing except this extremely twisted plotline.

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Forget my face._

I've tried, Mr. Todd, I really have. I've gone to sleep every night, eyes squeezed shut against the moonlight, forcing my brain away from the terrifying face that has been plaguing me ever since I saw it.

It was terrifying, but entrancing.

Am I allowed to admit that?

I'm sorry, Mr. Todd, but it's true. I've never seen so much blood before, especially not all over someone. I know you killed Judge Turpin, but I never imagined murder could get so messy. How did you do it, I sometimes wonder. I picture you with your gleaming razor, slitting the Judge's throat. But would that have produced so much blood?

You must have really hated him. I don't know why you hated him, Mr. Todd. Did he imprison a loved one? Did he execute a member of your family? What was it, then? Why do you hate him?

But I'm asking too many questions. You must be annoyed with me, Mr. Todd. You must think me a silly little girl who doesn't know how to keep her nose out of other people's business.

There was blood dripping off your nose, did you know that? I bet you didn't even notice, but I did. When you grabbed my and pushed me into your barber's chair, it fell onto my shirt. Well, technically it's Antony's shirt, but I was wearing it.

There was blood on the chair too. My backside was completely red by the time you had left and I could stand up. It was a little embarrassing, I will admit. I know it's a silly thing to admit, but I am, after all, a fifteen year old girl.

You thought I was a boy.

I was wearing Antony's clothes, but wasn't my voice a giveaway? I was so startled that I completely forgot where I was and what was going on, so the only voice you heard was my natural shaking one.

I bet you don't remember me. You've probably forgotten my face a long time ago.

But I can't forget you.

I'm sorry, Mr. Todd, I really am. Your face left me spellbound.

Sometimes I ask Antony about you. He told me that you were imprisoned a long time ago. You never told him why. I wish you had; I'd like to know. If I ever see you again, will you tell me?

I think Antony gets annoyed with me when I ask about you. I must have had him rack his brains at least ten times for information about you. He's told me everything he knows, but I want more.

Have you ever made up a story to explain something? I bet you have.

That's what I do when I'm not satisfied with Antony's stories. I walk out to the bow of the ship and stare out at the waves, losing myself in my thoughts.

I like to imagine you were once a loving husband and doting father. I saw the picture of your wife and daughter – that is who they are, right? Your wife was very beautiful. Do you think I'll ever be as attractive as she was?

I can feel blood rushing to my cheeks, even though you're not here to listen to me. Antony assures me that I'm the most beautiful girl he's ever seen in all his voyages, but his words no longer satisfy me.

I want your words.

I want you to tell me that I will one day be as beautiful as your wife was and someday be painted in a portrait like hers, holding my small child. I want to see you without the blood running down your cheeks and enhancing the frown lines on your forehead. I want you to be wearing a crisp white shirt devoid of bloodstains, maybe with your razor in one hand.

Because no barber can be complete without his razor, am I correct?

Antony tells me that he is never himself unless he is on board a ship, sailing day and night. He tells me that he never sleeps as well when he is not swinging back and forth in a hammock, listening to the sea sing him a private lullaby.

It must be the same with a barber. You must never feel right unless you have your razor in your hand and are gently scraping away at the stubble on someone's chin. You must have a nagging feeling in the back of your head every night as you try to sleep, wondering if you put each razor back in its resting place.

You've probably, once or twice, pushed back your blankets and ventured into the cold barber's shop to make sure that all of your razors were accounted for.

I touched your razors, do you mind? They were glinting in the dim light and seemed to hum with a certain impatience. The one I picked up felt warm in my hand. Do razors always feel warm? I would think they would be cold to the touch.

Maybe the one I picked up had been in your hand mere minutes before.

The heat is creeping back into my cheeks at the thought. Your hands must be flaming hot to keep such a tool warm even after you put it to rest. Sometimes I find myself wondering what your wife felt when you would hold her hand. Did you sometimes entwine fingers, I wonder. Did you ever lift her hand to your lips and kiss it gently before letting her hand go?

Antony's kissed my hand before. So has the Judge.

When the Judge kissed my hand, I felt a tingling sensation spread from the place his lips touched me up my arm. Against my will, my wrist jerked back, throwing his hand off. He never tried to kiss my hand after that.

When Antony kissed my hand for the first time, my whole arm felt warm. It made my heart flutter and a silly smile turn up the corners of my mouth. Now I feel next to nothing. It breaks my heart to admit it, it really does.

What would it feel like if you kissed my hand?

Sometimes I fantasize about it. You're always holding your razor in your other hand when you take mine into your own. Your lips barely brush my skin, and my hand always feels as if it's on fire. Sometimes I tighten my grip on your hand, for I never want to let it go.

Would you force me to, I wonder?

Would you feel wrong, Mr. Todd, with another woman's hand in your own?

I don't know what happened to your wife, but I now she is no longer with you. Antony says she was taken away by another man. Was she an unfaithful wife, then? I like to believe she was, for I think this would lessen the hurt of losing her.

In any case, Antony knows for certain that you never married again.

Is that because you feel you can never love another woman?

It may seem childish, but every night I kneel down, struggling to stay upright as the ship rocks back and forth, and pray that you will one day find happiness again.

I bet you're wondering why I care so much, aren't you, Mr. Todd?

You killed Judge Turpin, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Antony and I may have been able to fool ourselves that we could escape his clutches, but there was a lingering fear in the back of our minds telling us it would never be possible. By killing him, you freed me forever. You became my rescuer, my savior.

My knight in shining armor.

Well, a knight in red armor would suit you better, wouldn't it, Mr. Todd?

I have heard stories from books about girls falling in love with knights who rescue them from towers and dragons. Do you think it's possible for that to happen in real life? Can someone really fall in love out of gratitude?

I'm not sure myself.

We're heading back for London now, Antony tells me. I suppose when we return I'll look for you, to thank you and maybe feel your actual lips brush against my hand.

Then I suppose we'll find out together if those stories really can be true.

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_If you aren't scarred for life... review? Please? I'll write a non-creepy Sweeney fic if you do!!_


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